


entropy

by Thergo_Ergo



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Introspection, Post-Dishonored 2 (Video Game), but pre DOTO, i cannot emphasize enough it is not romantic, i dont know how to tag this, the outsider thinks about how lonely he is while delilah parties it up in the world as it should be, there is mention of blood and grievous injury but not too detailed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thergo_Ergo/pseuds/Thergo_Ergo
Summary: He hates her as he loves her, and he thinks she would appreciate that duality.
Relationships: Delilah Copperspoon & The Outsider
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	entropy

**Author's Note:**

> bro idk it is late and i am j  
> i am just sitting here

The void is still empty, even now. 

Delilah may not have been purged, he thinks, but this is a close solution. He can't bring himself to regret the refuse left behind, trapped in the world she was meant for. The Outsider stands above, and watches. 

She seems happy there. Like she cannot see the brushwork smiles or the unfinished edges of the canvas. All her friends, all her enemies, are gathered around, worshiping her. They are devoted utterly. It is vile and beautiful all at once. 

Perhaps if he was newly spilt he could rage. He could riot and scream, in the mortal way, and the void would devour it all, all-accepting and all-understanding. All empty. As it should be. 

The Outsider had some anger in him, at the beginning. The kind that spoils crops, and makes the abbey clutch their bombs to their hands and their hands to their scabbards. The kind that made lights in the ocean and sailors turn to the mist at their lover's call. When pods of whales surfaced and the seas turned red in their wake. The kind that couldn't be real. And it wasn't. 

The void took from him. Slowly, as all entropy must, not in malice or necessity. It hollows him even now, watching his birth-cursed prisoner dance in her cushioned cell. It wouldn't be right to say he feels nothing, but it certainly couldn't be said he feels at all. What is the void is him, and what is him is void. 

It couldn't be said they feel at all, but he as the void and the void as he can love. It isn't true love, like the mortals who hold hands and hearts and eyes to eyes as they trot on the plane below. Not like starving mothers clutching their children tightly, not as the rat loves the stale breadcrust and the orphan loves the friend. Like the assassin loves the knife and the knife loves the blood and the blood loves the meat it leaves as surely as it loves the ground it returns to. 

It's symbiosis. 

He is void, and she is too. She is wrong, the spot on the china, the boil on the noblewoman, a cancer on the body of all-things. She clung as tightly as she could to the flesh of the world, and it parted for her. Delilah is a force of nature and a force of nothing, but she was not made in the proper way. Not like him, sanctified with blood and sanctified with stone. 

She is wrong in every way, and surely one day the void will finish claiming her as it claims all things, but the void loves her. His deluded sister, whiling her time in her make-believe world, will never know it, but she is loved. 

The void loves her and loathes her, but, as in all things, it is empty. 

She would be just as empty, in no time a finite life will see. But surely before the sun is put out and the ocean slides over the land. Before the stars are plucked from the sky by unseen hands and civilization is a scar on the drowning earth. Poultices and sacrifices and the patterns witches etch on glass and stone and skin couldn't stop it. All things crawling, all things racing. One inevitability he has seen, is seeing, will see. 

She could have seen. 

One day she could have been void, as he is. They would be inextricable, two vessels spilling over with nothing, ruling a realm of nothing. She would be nothing as he was nothing before her. Even her prisons walls are not immune to the thundering call of the sea as it erodes stone, and the fire finished feeding, and the puddle in the sun. 

Her ambitions would ruin creation and everything cradling it together. The void loves her all the more for it. But it would never allow her her freedom. So he watches. 

It means nothing, as it should. He keeps sentinel over all things, and her dull world of worship is included. For him it has run dry already, but she has not seen the world turn for half the lifetimes he has. She is still entertained, and he cannot spoil that bliss. 

Delilah's gilded prison spins on an axis of her own whim. Does she know, already, where she is turning? Does she even care what world will take her, as long as it looks like this one? Questions that will never be asked, as there is no one who would care for the answer. Except him. Except the void. 

He can hate, as well. He hated Delilah from young cruelties to grown atrocities. He hates the way she burrowed into his being and ripped the world open. He despises this poison clinging to his marrow as he despises the world as it shouldn't be. 

She spited him in life while brewing potions and slitting throats. She spited him in banishment when she took what is his, what is him, and made it her own. She spites him even now as she spits on his name and realm inside her barred keep. 

A matched set if there ever was one. His skin, miles and centimeters away, frozen in the cradle of his corpse and the coffin of his newborn self, could shiver at the thought of eternity with this barnacle leeching from him. 

He hates her as he loves her, and he thinks she would appreciate that duality. 

The hounds slavering in the street, licking their cold faces and bleeding feet and the hands of those who would feed them would mold away. The children who starve and know their own blood before they know comfort would cease. All flies and grubs and that which moves below and churns the wet dirt would simply turn to dust. Oceans would run dry, revealing their secret innards. And he would still hate. 

It is the purest kind of love anyone could ever know.


End file.
